The world outside was in an uproar.
Inside Fushikawa Bunko, the Editing Department was cloaked in heavy silence.
All the executives had gathered in the conference room, eyes fixed on the wall of TV screens.
On display was none other than Midnight Sharp Talk.
When Osamu Ono dismissed Index as "trash," someone from marketing couldn't hold it in anymore—
Bang!
His fist slammed the table.
"These old geezers don't know jack about light novels!"
"They just see our sales numbers and can't stand it!"
"Damn it, another publisher's definitely pulling strings behind this!"
Their faces flushed red with fury, veins bulging in their necks.
If Index's sales took a hit, so would their résumés and year-end bonuses.
Everyone here felt the same urge—to storm the TV station and brawl with those so-called 'experts.'
Editor-in-Chief Ryuji Aida looked just as grim. He took a deep breath and motioned for the TV to be switched off.
The office instantly went silent.
"This is exactly the kind of attack we expected," he said coolly. "We just need to do our jobs. Anyone swayed by this kind of talk was never a light novel reader to begin with."
"Our readers don't care about so-called literary value."
"No matter how loud the noise, it won't shake Index's sales."
His calm words sank in. The staff's clenched jaws loosened, the storm in their expressions softening.
It was true. People who cared about literary prestige didn't touch light novels in the first place.
Fans read light novels for one thing: fun.
They knew exactly what they wanted.
Don't treat the market like it's stupid.
"Alright, get back to work," Aida ordered. "Stick to your posts. Don't let the noise distract you. That's exactly what they want—for us to slip up."
"Yes, sir!"
One by one, the employees filed out of the conference room.
But Aida himself couldn't relax.
As he'd said, the whole point of this smear campaign was to provoke mistakes.
He could keep Fushikawa Bunko in line. But what about the key piece on the board—Seiji Fujiwara, their young genius author?
What if he lost his temper?
No, he'd have to check personally.
He immediately picked up the phone.
"Hello, Warukawa-sensei, sorry to bother you at a time like this," Aida said gently once the call connected. "Did you see what's on TV and online?"
"Please, I'm begging you—stay calm. They want you to lash out and slip up. Don't respond to anything. Just wait for the storm to pass."
In the luxury apartment across town, Seiji Fujiwara listened and chuckled softly.
"I understand, Editor-in-Chief Aida," he replied evenly. "The fact they're stirring up this much noise only proves they're desperate. I know what I'm doing. I won't lose my head over this."
This was just standard business warfare.
In his previous life, Seiji had orchestrated moves like this himself—hundreds of times.
Why would he feel rattled now?
After a few more words, the call ended.
But Aida only grew more uneasy.
An eighteen-year-old boy, perfectly composed while the entire internet came crashing down on him?
Impossible.
Wasn't this just the calm before the storm?
"No… this won't do."
After wrestling with it for a moment, Aida shot to his feet.
Better to be safe. The stakes were too high.
He summoned Sonoko Machida.
"Machida, I want you to personally go and check on Warukawa-sensei. Keep him steady. Use whatever means you need—just make sure nothing happens to our genius."
"Yes, sir!"
Her expression turned solemn. She was worried too. If Fujiwara lost control and acted rashly, it would be a disaster.
"I'll head out right now," she promised.
Truth be told, even without orders she'd been planning to visit him.
"Good," Aida said, satisfied. He immediately signed off her leave slip. "For the rest of this month, forget coming into the office. Just focus on keeping Warukawa-sensei calm."
"Understood!"
Clutching the leave slip, Machida strode out of the building.
As soon as she stepped outside, she dialed Seiji's number.
"Warukawa-sensei, it's me, Machida. Please don't take what's happening online to heart. They're just jealous."
She hesitated, then added softly, "Actually… would you be interested in a trip? Fushikawa has partnerships with a lot of resort groups. We could arrange any top-class hotel in the country. You could see the snow in Hokkaido or relax in the sea breeze in Okinawa. All expenses on us."
The last thing he needed was to stew in his apartment. A change of scenery might do wonders.
On the other end, Utaha Kasumigaoka, lounging nearby, caught every word. Her wine-red eyes glimmered.
"Seiji, going out for a bit might be good," she suggested.
Before Seiji could reply, Machida overheard Utaha's voice through the receiver. She immediately laughed.
"Exactly, Warukawa-sensei. A trip with your girlfriend sounds perfect!"
Seiji gave a wry smile.
With all his system perks, how could he possibly be weighed down by a few angry critics?
Machida and Utaha meant well, but they were overthinking things.
"Thanks for the thought, Machida, but not right now. I've still got work on my plate. Maybe later," he declined politely.
After a few more words, he hung up.
Turning to see Utaha's lingering look of concern, Seiji sighed. Then he swept her up in his arms and carried her straight toward the bedroom.
"You've been worrying too much, Utaha. Time I set you straight."
"Ah—!"
She let out a startled cry at suddenly being lifted. But within moments, she nestled obediently against his chest.
So… he really was affected by the online attacks after all?
Her lips tightened. She was going to pay for it tonight.
Well… so be it. If this was how he needed to vent his frustration, she'd take it all on.
Utaha closed her eyes, bracing herself for a storm.
But instead of roughness, what she felt was Seiji's usual steady rhythm—controlled, deliberate, assured.
And before long, Utaha herself was swept up, mind blank, forgetting everything else.
…
Back at Fushikawa Bunko, Machida still wore a troubled look after hanging up.
Refusing to go out? Holing himself up at home?
That was the first sign of a dangerous spiral.
"No. I need to do more."
She quickly ordered several premium Hokkaido vacation vouchers—physical tickets. She'd hand them to him directly.
"Maybe seeing them in person will change his mind."
…
Meanwhile, rival publishers were celebrating Fushikawa's silence.
They accelerated their own release schedules, determined to cash in while "Warukawa-sensei was under fire."
After all, they knew better than anyone—online mudslinging wouldn't actually stop readers from buying light novels.
Fast food didn't stop selling just because critics complained it wasn't healthy.
Readers weren't idiots.
…
But what none of them knew—
In his study, Seiji sat calmly at his computer, fingers gliding across the keys.
He was weaving the creative techniques he'd gained from After School into Index's second volume.
The story's structure grew tighter and more intricate.
His word choice became sharper, more polished.
The characters' arcs gained greater resonance.
The foreshadowing—subtle, seamless, natural.
With sheer craft, he elevated the entire book, bringing it close to the refined subtlety of early-2000s light novels—while still hitting the modern market's high points.
By the time he leaned back from the screen, Index II had transformed into a work that could truly be called "for both the refined and the popular."
…
…
Elsewhere in Kyoto, in a quiet villa—
A blonde twin-tailed girl named Eriri Spencer Sawamura was gnawing on a piece of bread while scrolling online.
The sight of "experts" tearing into A Certain Magical Index nearly made her crush the bread in her hand.
"What crap! What do those fossils know?!"
She hadn't bought the book herself.
But a few days ago, while selling off her precious old collectibles, the secondhand shop owner had "evangelized" a copy into her hands.
That was how fans were—if they loved something, they bought three.
One to read, one to collect, one to spread the word.
Already fond of light novels, she'd gone home, cracked it open… and been instantly hooked by its wild imagination and thrilling story.
She'd devoured it in one night, exhilarated.
So seeing these malicious reviews now filled her with fury.
But…
If she were still her old self, the diplomat's daughter, she would've logged into her dozen sockpuppets and gone to war online.
Now?
She glanced toward the corner of her room.
The display case was bare. The villa, cold and dark.
Her eyes dimmed.
Her father had abandoned her mother to run back to his childhood sweetheart—only to die with her in an accident.
Her mother had gone traveling to heal… only for her plane to mysteriously vanish. Still no trace.
And this villa? The Spencer family planned to reclaim it soon, letting her stay only until she turned of age.
Eriri had fallen from privileged heiress to poor girl overnight.
Her doujin work? Out of the question now.
She had to pivot to commercial illustration, scraping by for meager pay.
Not long ago, she'd even sold off her years of anime collectibles, just to stay afloat until her art started earning.
She had no time, no energy to fight some endless war online.
"Pull it together, Eriri!"
She slapped her cheeks, shaking off the gloom.
Finishing her bread quickly, she sat back down at her computer and opened her illustration software.
On screen was a freshly completed drawing—an illustration she planned to submit to Fushikawa Bunko.
Right now, she had only one goal:
To make money.